Trekmaster. James B. Johnson

      “As you will, Highness. You must excuse me, for I have to plan a crusade which just occurred to me.”

      TJ’s eyes glinted. “Do not cross me, Cruz, for here I am the supreme authority. I judge that you have just made a threat. And I judge your crusade will be against Fed membership.” He held up a large palm. “Do not interrupt me when I speak. For this is the one and only warning. Should you choose to go ahead with your plans, I shall amend the tax laws to include your Churches, their property, and your finances. Take about ten minutes. And the tax rate, since your income is, in effect, unearned, shall be ruinous.” TJ found he could barely contain his anger—yet he knew it was wrong. He should have been more diplomatic with Cruz, conned him a little, given some ground for the Chief Padre’s support.

      Cruz’ face expressed disbelief. “You wouldn’t dare. It would end in a religious war none of us could afford.”

      TJ couldn’t ignore the unmistaken challenge. “If so, the Church would have many martyrs to consecrate. Do you, Roaland Cruz, wish to be the cause of so many deaths?” Oddly, he recalled a statement from his reading of Earthe history. “Stalin once asked, ‘How many divisions has the Pope?’”

      Cruz ignored the comment. “I know you, Shepherd, and that you would do....”

      “What you do not realize, Padre, is that if a religious war breaks out, we shall certainly not obtain the Federation Council seat. And I will have no ambitions left to me, and nothing else to do—save squelch your puny rebellion to ease my anger.” He saw that Summer was now standing, body tensed. TJ forced himself to relax.

      Cruz said, “Your position is understood, Majesty, and shall be taken under consideration.”

      TJ couldn’t resist a last shot. “Could it be, Padre, that you envision a Church-run world with yourself at the helm?”

      “It could be no worse. But that is not my intention.”

      “Good day then, Padre. Watch your step for there are many pitfalls along the road of power. And I am a mean pitfall.” He did not wait for a response, but turned and strode out of the room. The jester scurried to catch up. Down the corridors they went, surrounded by guards and scattering lesser padres and acolytes from their path. TJ wondered how serious Cruz was. Cruz had always been right there at the periphery of the action, a dedicated man certainly, but an opportunist nonetheless. Both of them had always been careful not to overstep themselves, both aware of the no-win situation. Neither would personally win any power struggle regardless of who emerged victorious. Yet TJ had never seen Cruz so angry. He wished he himself had been able to control his temper better. But on the rare occasions he gave in to the impulse, he immediately felt better. It was difficult to be impartial, benign, gracious—kingly.

      Outside, he climbed upon his stallion. The black pranced a little on his white-stocking feet. TJ had found stallions always skittish, yet he must ride the most magnificent to be found. Image sometimes was everything. His guards hurried to catch up. The dozen men clattered on the flagstones to Bearpaw Avenue, a main thoroughfare through the city. Summer Camp rode a splotched mule in his accustomed position at TJ’s left side. TJ was right-handed and Camp ambidextrous.

      People waved and shouted and smiled. TJ forced himself to change roles and submerged his anger. Actually, he really liked this part of being King. Vanity? he wondered. Maybe. But he still enjoyed the feeling.

      “TJ,” Summer said in a voice designed to reach the King’s ears only, “if you meant to stir the pot, you done it good. You’ve got one snarv-mad Chief Padre on your hands.”

      “Did you really think he would admit to being a part of some plot? No. A little prodding here and there and maybe the opposition’s plan will be moved up, tried in haste next time. And thus be more vulnerable.”

      “Slow down a bit,” Camp said, kicking his mule in the sides to urge the animal to keep up with the King. His floppy, long-tailed jester’s hat blew in the wind and makeup concealed his appearance. “I don’t know if these scare tactics will work. If these people, whoever they are, know what they are doing, we won’t catch them this way. Especially if it is a deep plot to prevent our entry into the Fed.”

      “And if we don’t find them this way, Summer, we’ll know they are professional at least, and that they plan well. Which will be more than we know right now.” TJ paused. Wearily, he said, “I fear that it may escalate. Suppose it is not one specific group but a coalition? Then the opposition powerbase would be spread out and thus more difficult to contend.”

      “Point taken, boss. Here’s a big crowd. Smile.”

      “Got any candy for those kids?”

      “In my saddlebags.” Summer tossed rock candy to street urchins. Among the candy were coins of small denominations. Originally, he had instigated throwing candy and coins to children as a tactic to get them out of the way so the King’s party could travel uninterrupted, but the practice had become custom—and Summer had thus insured that it did not appear to be a gesture of largess from a condescending King.

      “In another generation, Summer, those kids will be in school learning how to install showers and work on weather satellites and not be on the street.”

      “You hope.”

      “I know.” He felt a surge of confidence that wasn’t really warranted. But his verbal battle with Cruz had sharpened his perceptions and given him a taste of action, passive though it had been.

      “Hopefully your plans will work out.”

      TJ tugged on the reins to slow his mount. “Summer, you are trying to say something. Say it.”

      “Sure, boss. If the Chief Padre wasn’t a part of a conspiracy against the crown before, he will be now.”

      “Cruz is smart, full of political savvy,” TJ said. “He’d jump at the right opportunity regardless. But he’s not going to expose himself, take chances. No, we can yell at each other all day—that won’t change things except on the surface. However, we’d better watch him close. And he’s not my problem. What I’m worrying about is how to discredit Tirano. That has me worried.”

      “He’s a fool, TJ. He’ll sink himself.”

      “It’s not that easy, Summer. Look at it from the Fed’s point of view. All things being equal, which would they choose—Bear Ridge or Two Tongues? Tirano and Two Tongues of course.”

      “Toss-up.”

      “Good thing I’m the King,” TJ said. “The Fed can reap profits from Two Tongues we cannot match. That silly little mite dust. As if anybody needs an aphrodisiac. Anyway, the Fed simply slaps a tax on the dust and their budget is balanced for the next Fed fiscal year. They are not politically stupid. Surely they’ve had their eyes on Two Tongues since they rediscovered this system. We might even have been admitted to consideration just to make the selection of Two Tongues for the Council seat look legitimate and fair. Lord knows they’ve had plenty of time to evaluate. Why did they send such a young and inexperienced evaluator as Sharon Gold? And certainly they know Tirano and his peculiarities. So they don’t care if Tirano is an ass or not, they care about the revenue he can bring and, consequently, the power. That expensive mite dust provides one fine power base. Ironic isn’t it?”

      Summer didn’t answer.

      TJ concentrated on not colliding with Lieutenant Timmons in front of him. “What we need,” he thought aloud, “is to come up with something from Bear Ridge that is appealing to the Fed and that would provide a comparable tax base.”

      “I might not be King,” Summer said, “but I know there ain’t any easy answers. What do we have? Sheepaloe hides? Beefaloe meat? Funny wood for crossbows? Super wool from sheepaloe? Those things don’t match with energy weapons and synthetic fabrics.”

      “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a product, Summer.”

      “Oh?”

      “How are we on time?” TJ changed the subject.